Chapter 3 - The City of Destruction

The city streets teemed with women of all ages, coming and going from market stall to market stall, their baskets full of produce: bread, vegetables and fruits piled high, threatening to spill over the rim on to the muddy earth beneath them.

Impatient gentlemen rushed along the streets, too, one hand holding aloft top hats, in an urgent bid to be punctual for important meetings. Beggars and tramps blocked their progress with pleading hands and wails of despair. All the while the sound of horse-driven carriages and carts echoed above the human din - their hooves and bells sounding out a warning to all who would dare cross a road without looking.

As they travelled the packed London streets, Maggie and Tom begged passing strangers, haggled over and eventually sold the handful of coals they had scavenged the previous day. They also sang and performed for drunken sailors:

"Rattle his bones over the stones;

He's only a Pauper, whom nobody owns!"

While they sang - and unnoticed by Maggie - a kindly passer-by pressed a coin into Thomas's hand, muttered words about God and saving his everlasting soul, then slipped back into the throng of people.

With all the contributions, including the unexpected act of charity, they treated themselves to succulent meat pies from a market stall. Every morsel of food was special to them and they ate every scrap as if it might be their last.

Maggie watched her ten-year old brother chase after pigeons, kicking up straw from the ground, dodging heaps of horse manure, as he pursued them across the street. Forgetting her grown-up responsibilities for a moment, she allowed him to wonder off.

Then she stopped at a set of notices plastered upon the street's hoardings. The word Charter caught her eye. Whenever she saw billstickers going about their business, she recalled her father, remembered her old life.

Back home in Liverpool, her father would go out when dark finally settled and have her keep an 'eye out' - as he went about plastering political announcements, and advertised Chartist meetings upon hoardings across the city streets. He knew it was illegal but told her he was doing it for the right reasons. He explained that sometimes things may be illegal, but it did not mean they were necessarily sinful.

Her old life, she thought. But old gave the impression it had occurred in a distant and unknowable past. Yet her life, before arriving in London, existed little more than two years ago. It took place upon a different waterfront, in a different city, hundreds of miles north of London. Back then she had a home, regular meals, schooling, books, and friends...

A rich life indeed, even without riches.

Amongst the billposters, her eye glanced across a selection of roughly drawn images of men and women's faces. Some were bordered with the words MISSING and REWARD. Most names faded quickly from her memory. But they made her think: some people still cared enough for their lost, their missing, their runaways, their presumed drowned, to capture their likeness and publicise their loss.

She and Thomas, on the other hand, had nobody.

Nobody. A realisation she kept stored under lock and key for most of her waking hours. But on occasions the imprisoned idea picked the lock and sneaked to the front of her mind.

She looked at the faces upon the posters with an unexpected sense of envy. Many of them looked to be of a similar age to her. Yet one name, without a drawn likeness to accompany it, struck her. Christabel. A beautiful sounding name, she thought. To her it sounded like a hymn or a song dedicated to Jesus. Chris-ta-bel. Three musical syllables which she repeated to herself as she read the words of the loved ones who sought her. Now aged thirteen, a delightful girl, missing since February. This made her tearful again. Yet she knew from her own recent experience that children came and went, appeared and disappeared, all of the time in the city.

As she turned away from the posters, she tried to distract herself from a lingering thought. But the escaped prisoner from the back of her mind formed an urgent enquiry once more. And it demanded an answer to its question: was there anyone, anywhere, missing two children in particular? Two ragged children, who were fast running out of options.

***

When they finally reached St Paul's, Maggie began asking directions to Fetter Lane. Most of the well-dressed people on the bustling street ignored her requests, some shook their heads and moved on, and others - who didn't appear to speak English - held out their arms in frustration.

When they crossed into Fleet Street, Maggie asked a crossing sweeper boy for directions. He directed them to a narrow alley, which he assured them led to their location.

By now, Maggie had become used to the streets. Although not as street-wise as the children who spent their whole lives carving out a life and earning a living from the city's alleyways and lanes, she possessed a sense of impending danger; and knew instinctively where threats lurked on the city streets.

The quiet lane they entered, in contrast to the bustling main road, brought to the fore this newfound sensitivity. It was as if an alarm sounded in her mind - then charged through her entire being - pulsating like an electrical charge. As soon as they reached the lane's halfway point, she spotted a street gang lazing on the opposite corner. They stood at various angles, all irregular in stature but uniform in their shabby, grey clothing. Apart from one older boy.

A quick glance suggested danger ahead. "Keep your head down and keep walking straight ahead," Maggie whispered to Tom.

Across the road she saw quick glances and disguised mutterings between members of the gang. One member of the gang, the eldest - a flashily dressed boy - seemed to have spotted them. He looked across to Maggie and Tom, then turned and whispered something to the rest of the gang - which consisted of both girls and boys, aged from around seven or eight up to the age of thirteen or fourteen.

The eldest boy peeled away from gang and moved swiftly - in quick, skipping steps - across the street to meet them. The rest stayed in their positions at the corner of the street watching on. Tom walked on unaware, yet Maggie felt a spiral of lightness descend into her stomach.

"Hello sweetpea."

***

Metropolitan Police Evidence: The Power Papers - Document 2

Extract from the proceedings of the trial of Thomas Power, 3rd June 1839.

Thomas Francis Power was indicted, with others, who feloniously did compass, imagine, devise, and intend to levy war against the Queen. 2nd Count, for a like compassing, with intent to depose the Queen from the style, honour, and dignity of the Imperial Crown. 3rd Count, for unlawfully making a seditious speech. Other Counts, for attending an unlawful assembly, and for exciting others to riot.

Testimony of Alfred Charles Ricketts:

I live at 17 Great Charlotte Street, Blackfriars Road and I am in the habit of reporting for the public press on many different matters. I have been so employed at this profession for at least seven years.

I attended a Chartist meeting at Clerkenwell Green on 23rd March this year. Upon a platform erected for the speakers, I first saw the prisoner - Thomas Power. There were about a thousand people in attendance. As the speeches proceeded, the crowd may have grew by up to another thousand or so beings. It consisted mainly of the lower orders I suppose. There were many filthy and ragged souls amongst their number. Also many of the lowest and meanest Irish were in attendance, cheering and grunting like monkeys.

Later, I witnessed and heard clearly the speech Thomas Power delivered to the crowd that day. Before, that is, the mob, inflamed by his words, marched through the streets to convene and set to riot at Soho Square.

I noted down his speech and this particular part was what first struck me as amounting to treason.

"This Government is rotten and not worthy of the support of any honest man. You must use all of your power to overthrow it. Remember there is one safe way of getting rid of bad rulers and those who forget their duty to their country. And I openly avow, I mean revolution. What is it that makes the tyrants flee? Why, it is the fear of rebellion, fear of the many taking what is rightly theirs. And it is by these means other bad rulers will soon take flight. To achieve this we must use Physical Force. And further, I advocate that from this month on, we support the growing action for a general strike. Support the Sacred Month!"

As I watched and took notes, I witnessed at the end of the speech he held up a weapon, some sort of dagger I believe, and began to sing the "Marseillaise Hymn", which made the crowd turn rowdy, especially the Irish lot who chanted foul remarks regarding Her Majesty and her government...

***